Aziraphale (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
temptationaccomplished) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
tramitem_comm2020-10-19 12:46 am
temptationaccomplished) wrote in tramitem_comm2020-10-19 12:46 am
self indulgent fluff and now I will return to actual tags
A letter, hand written and hand delivered on October 20th (because we cannot be too meta) by Fell in the morning (before he suspects 2/3 of the residents will be awake, and as he himself heads off for work) to the mailbox of the building inhabited by the Crowleys.
Addressed on the outside of the envelope to "Anthony" in a pretty gold ink, and sealed.
One of the great joys of a life long lived is the accumulation of memories.
Many of those have significance even isolated, even in the eyes of an outsider (which I'm afraid is a bit of what I am, right now, to my own past). But many more have their significance in the context of our greater experiences together--
Context. Sadly, I feel that's what so many of these scattered memories are lacking. (Oh, I know logically I should not believe what is happening to us is real. But we've been over that and yet still, here we are.)
Even without understanding how or why or when… I love you. I feel that I should say that more. I love you, and I loved you then, I'm sure of it, now more than ever. You can view your memories of me through that lens, that come Hell or high water, your angel loves you. Even if he cannot say it.
It frightens me that I may never truly fully appreciate how valuable it is that I can put words to my love for you, now, here in this arc of our shared existence--or that I may never know how much you have meant to me, what you've done and how you've cared for me. Our life is so long and our memories so vast. Forgetting hasn't spared me from heartbreak or pining--I want to know the richness and depth of everything. I want to indulge in the good and the bad. We have been done a great disservice, losing that part of ourselves.
I regret that sometimes I've doubted that a demon could love an angel. (I don't know that I have ever truly doubted the reverse--naturally I would love you. You are kind and wickedly charming and good--and handsome, but you know that all too well, it hardly needs mentioning, but you are beautiful down to your core--and I loved you even when you weren't mine to love.)
If you saw what I saw--
Perhaps I am not the best angel, or even the best person. Perhaps some of the decisions I made were callous or selfish. But you-- with your brash swagger and your refusal to accept praise. You, who "happened to be in the neighborhood," who came to the rescue of an angel despite the trouble it might get you into, all to spare me the indignity of "paperwork"--
I may not understand why the books were so significant, but you saved them. You loved me enough to save them. You risked punishment because you loved me. I have no doubt you loved me and I wonder if I knew then. I hope I did.
I hope I cherished every moment with you. I fear I didn't--how can an undying being properly appreciate the fragile ephemerality of their existence?
It is a bit ridiculous of me to mourn things I cannot remember, but the more I see of our past together, the more I know I am missing so much, big and small. I suspect we'll learn the big things in time, but can anything really replace the little moments? The little things that we don't catalogue, that we take for granted because they are not Earth shatteringly momentous: the smell of your cologne, your hair under a particular lighting, the touch of a demonic miracle.
We have so much history. We must, through all those years. I want it. To hoard it all, covet it-- So few of these memories feel like mine and mine alone. These are ours, Anthony, yours and mine together, and I am both so profoundly moved by that we once shared these, and so utterly devastated at the thought that it is all gone, recovered at the whims of… whatever entity or power is controlling all this. What if we never recover it all? What if it vanishes from our memories again?
This seemed like such a sensible, romantic idea at half-past-one this morning, but now I think it's become something of a rambling mess. The point is, if you've reached the end of all this rubbish, I love you, Anthony. I love you dearly.
Addressed on the outside of the envelope to "Anthony" in a pretty gold ink, and sealed.
One of the great joys of a life long lived is the accumulation of memories.
Many of those have significance even isolated, even in the eyes of an outsider (which I'm afraid is a bit of what I am, right now, to my own past). But many more have their significance in the context of our greater experiences together--
Context. Sadly, I feel that's what so many of these scattered memories are lacking. (Oh, I know logically I should not believe what is happening to us is real. But we've been over that and yet still, here we are.)
Even without understanding how or why or when… I love you. I feel that I should say that more. I love you, and I loved you then, I'm sure of it, now more than ever. You can view your memories of me through that lens, that come Hell or high water, your angel loves you. Even if he cannot say it.
It frightens me that I may never truly fully appreciate how valuable it is that I can put words to my love for you, now, here in this arc of our shared existence--or that I may never know how much you have meant to me, what you've done and how you've cared for me. Our life is so long and our memories so vast. Forgetting hasn't spared me from heartbreak or pining--I want to know the richness and depth of everything. I want to indulge in the good and the bad. We have been done a great disservice, losing that part of ourselves.
I regret that sometimes I've doubted that a demon could love an angel. (I don't know that I have ever truly doubted the reverse--naturally I would love you. You are kind and wickedly charming and good--and handsome, but you know that all too well, it hardly needs mentioning, but you are beautiful down to your core--and I loved you even when you weren't mine to love.)
If you saw what I saw--
Perhaps I am not the best angel, or even the best person. Perhaps some of the decisions I made were callous or selfish. But you-- with your brash swagger and your refusal to accept praise. You, who "happened to be in the neighborhood," who came to the rescue of an angel despite the trouble it might get you into, all to spare me the indignity of "paperwork"--
I may not understand why the books were so significant, but you saved them. You loved me enough to save them. You risked punishment because you loved me. I have no doubt you loved me and I wonder if I knew then. I hope I did.
I hope I cherished every moment with you. I fear I didn't--how can an undying being properly appreciate the fragile ephemerality of their existence?
It is a bit ridiculous of me to mourn things I cannot remember, but the more I see of our past together, the more I know I am missing so much, big and small. I suspect we'll learn the big things in time, but can anything really replace the little moments? The little things that we don't catalogue, that we take for granted because they are not Earth shatteringly momentous: the smell of your cologne, your hair under a particular lighting, the touch of a demonic miracle.
We have so much history. We must, through all those years. I want it. To hoard it all, covet it-- So few of these memories feel like mine and mine alone. These are ours, Anthony, yours and mine together, and I am both so profoundly moved by that we once shared these, and so utterly devastated at the thought that it is all gone, recovered at the whims of… whatever entity or power is controlling all this. What if we never recover it all? What if it vanishes from our memories again?
This seemed like such a sensible, romantic idea at half-past-one this morning, but now I think it's become something of a rambling mess. The point is, if you've reached the end of all this rubbish, I love you, Anthony. I love you dearly.
With Love,
Your Angel
Your Angel
no subject
"It suits you."
Anthony chuckled at how wonderfully out of step with modern sensibilities Aziraphale could be as he snagged the nearby open wine bottle and poured them both a glass.
"That letter..."
He set the wine bottle back into it's chilled bucket and waited until Aziraphale sat down to join him before he said anymore. This was for their ears only... not that it wasn't tempting to shout it from the rooftops.
"I feel like I have been waiting to hear something like that. Can't say how long... In the beginning I just thought you would be interesting to talk to."
That wasn't quite true so it was amended.
"I liked your wings. You had cute ankles..."
He didn't even wince as he used the word cute.
"And giving away that sword! Anyway I can't say I was in love with you then, maybe I was, maybe it happened later in some memory I don't have yet but I know I am in love with you now. I'm glad you can write about your feelings. I'm glad I can talk about them. We could go out into the middle of New York and shout 'I love you' at the top of our lungs and the worst thing that would happen is that we ended up hailing a taxi."
He reached out to take Aziraphale's hand, gently rubbing those talented fingers between his own.
"Everything you wrote in that letter I feel the same way."
no subject
"Oh, I think someone might yell at you and make a crude gesture. This IS New York." But he shared the sentiment. And though his British sensibilities tended towards more understated public shows of affection, he was entertained and swept up by the idea of the two of them, men in their fifties and probably drunk off love and wine, standing in the middle of Manhattan and shouting to the top of the Chrysler Building, to the whole of Time Square, like teenagers or romantic movie stars, that they were In Love. It was elating to feel this freedom even if he and Anthony, as they were now, had never truly experienced being denied it in the first place.
His cheeks were rosy and those five words, I feel the same way made him feel warm and sweet, a little drunk on Anthony's love for him.
"Cute ankles, though," he tutted playfully after a moment. He took a sip of wine without taking his hand from Anthony's. "Anthony. Really. That's positively Victorian of you."
no subject
"It's what I could see from where I was. Just white wing tips and ankles... until I slithered past and took on human form."
His eyes drifted to his wine, just watching the red liquid swirl lightly around in his glass when ever the table vibrated slightly.
"We might have done that you know. Had some sort of Victorian rendezvous. A mask in some grand ballroom, I'd like to remember that if we did."
no subject
"Sounds positively scandalous. Lots of dark corners and presumed anonymity." He grinned, tickled by the thought of the kind of trouble one could get into--might have gotten into--if one's hereditary enemy happened to be at the same place. Such ideas made one wonder what he and Anthony were even doing on Earth all those years. A whole lot of nothing, by the sound of it: opening bookshops, trying to steal Holy Water from a church; the Reign of Terror hadn't required demonic instigation.
"I picture it along the lines of a Venetian carnival, I think, just because I like the decadence. All those feathers and sparkly bits."
He wiggled happily. "Lots of ...plausible deniability."
no subject
At the mention of the word Anthony's ears perked up and his eyes fixed on Aziraphale's face like he had just come up with the most brilliant scheme.
"Now that we could do. Instead of sitting around waiting for memories we could go out and make a few. How do you feel about Venice? It'd be around February I think, that's when they hold it. We would just need to keep our passports up to date and find a few interesting costumes."
He smirked, full of wicked vigor as he collected his wine glass and held it out like a challenge or...
"Tempted to give your plausible deniability an assessment?"
no subject
It was so very tempting, the thought that they could whisk off to Venice for a raucous celebration, enjoy a little wine and the culture, the music and the moonlight, and of course the food, all the food~! He'd never been to a real carnival before, only the more local versions. Anthony would be treating him to his first.
He tipped his own glass to clink against Anthony's. February felt so very far away and his imagination was already running wild with escapades. "To plausible deniability."